


Give It Up

by mynameisnoneya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Engagement, F/M, Fluff, Groping, Implied Sexual Content, Living Together, Premarital Sex, Relationship(s), Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 07:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11687076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/pseuds/mynameisnoneya
Summary: Sansa Stark is engaged to her martial artist boyfriend, Sandor Clegane.  On a whim, Sansa, who is a hapless romantic, decides that they need to postpone having sex until their wedding day.  Willing to comply with her request, Sandor, however, tests both Sansa's boundaries and her resolve as he attempts to define just what "no sex" means.





	Give It Up

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot about Sansa and Sandor's little game of sexual tension came to me after talking with my mom the other day about our mutual love for Richard Chamberlain and for his role as Anjin-san in _Shogun._ Yeah, I know, Chamberlain is older than dirt and also gay, but seriously, I just. Don't. Care.
> 
> Please note that I made sure to tag any and all characters that appear in this work, whether they have a speaking role or not. 
> 
> General disclaimer: GoT characters and quotes belong to GRMM - I own nor claim nothing!
> 
> If you enjoyed this work, please let me know by leaving comments and kudos!

“You’re joking, right?” Sandor snorted in amusement upon hearing his extraordinarily beautiful fiancée’s out-of-the-blue decree, “You want us to give up sex?

Rolling her cerulean eyes in mock indignation, Sansa resisted the urge to grin, “No, I’m not joking, Sandor.  And yes, I mean it.  I think we should abstain from any further premarital relations until the wedding.”  Furiously chopping the vegetables for the salad that she insisted on making for tonight’s repast even though she knew her future husband would most likely ignore it for the chicken casserole heating up in the oven, Sansa stood in front of the counter in their apartment’s tiny, antiquated galley kitchen, her eyes intently focused on her work at hand and decidedly _not_ on the smug-as-shit smirk spreading across Sandor’s scarred visage.

“Did you just call having sex “premarital relations?’  What century are we in again, little bird?” Sandor outright teased her as he methodically laid the forks and napkins on the tiny four-seater table nestled in the corner of their living room.

Sansa sniffed at his blatant dig at her over-the-top, stuffy vocabulary choices tonight.  She was an English Lit teacher, for Christ’s sake.  Sue her for being literate.  “This coming from a man whose entire career is spent pretending to be a samurai.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be then, eh?” Sandor chuckled as he rounded the corner of the table, rapidly twirling one of the knives through his fingers like some sort of ninja spy assassin.  After placing the potentially lethal piece of silverware on the napkin by the dinner plate, he cocked his one dark eyebrow in challenge, “Well, we both know that you love it when I poke you with my sword.  Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Damn her if she hadn’t walked right into that one.

“Alright, would you stop already?” Sansa giggled slightly in return, her normally pale cheeks ablaze, thanks to her highly miscalculated misstep.  She felt the familiar tingle beginning to percolate way down deep in her gut simply at hearing Sandor’s rich, baritone voice loaded full of blatant innuendo.  Jesus.  They had barely started talking about her idea to postpone having sex for a few months, and she was already feeling the urge to reconsider the validity of her own argument.

“Stop what?” Sandor countered, a mischievous look dancing along his scarred countenance while feigning ignorance.

“You know what,” she playfully sassed while reaching for the tomatoes, “Anyway, as I was saying, I think that by waiting to sleep together until the wedding, our honeymoon night will be even more special.”

Pouring the water from the pitcher into the glasses, Sandor wondered aloud, “You do?”

“Absolutely!” Sansa exclaimed while still slicing and dicing, “Can’t you just imagine how incredibly romantic our first time together as ‘husband and wife’ will be after we’ve waited for so long?”  She sighed deeply as her over-active imagination began to spiral out of control as usual.  Sansa began to envision just how wonderfully passionate their wedding night coupling actually would be after putting their sex life on hold for a while.  Visions of silken sheets covered in rose petals drifted into her consciousness.  She imagined Sandor’s completely naked, oversized frame looming over her as he parted her legs and pushed into her, the patio doors of their honeymoon suite on the beach left wide open while the billowing white curtains fluttered in the moonlit breeze, the sounds of the ocean waves below their balcony echoing throughout the room in time with the undulations of their bodies…

“Sansa?” she heard Sandor’s voice echoing off in the distance, his words slightly muffled as if she were underwater.  Shit.  She hadn’t heard what he had just said because she was too busy fucking Sandor in her immensely erotic fantasy.  Now was definitely _not_ the time for that.

“Sorry,” Sansa apologized sheepishly, blinking rapidly and clearing her throat, “What were you saying?”

Sandor titled his head to the side, his gray eyes narrowing as he studied her closely before speaking, “I asked you where you came up with the idea.”

“Margaery,” Sansa offered plainly, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

“Margaery?”

“Yes, Margaery.”

“Your perpetually horny little friend who slept with Bronn on their first date?”

Once again, Sansa rolled her eyes at her typically blunt fiancé’s assessment of her source of intel, “Yes, Margaery!  She told me today at lunch that a couple of her coworkers at the salon told her that they had held off having sex for at least two months for before they got married,” Sansa explained, dumping the chopped tomatoes into the bowl and reaching for the baby carrots, “She said that her coworkers told her that on the night they finally consummated their marriage, the moment was cataclysmic.”

“Consummated?  Cataclysmic?” Sandor snickered.

Sansa nodded, “Yeah, that’s what Margaery said.  Her words.”

That reply caused Sandor to bark out in laughter, “I seriously doubt that Margaery even knows how to spell those words, let alone use them in a sentence properly.”

“ _Sandor_ …” Sansa warned as she shot him a look, momentarily pausing her culinary handiwork, her knife hanging in mid-air.

“OK, OK,” Sandor chuckled as he finally finished his chore, sauntering into the entry way to the kitchen with his hands in mock surrender, “You win.  You want to pretend that I’m some sort of monk and you’re a blushing virgin waiting to be bedded?  Fine.  I’ll go along with it.  But do tell me, milady; where will you be sleeping these next three months, hmm?”

“Me?” Sansa gasped as she began to realize that she really hadn’t sorted out several key details on how she was going to implement her nefarious scheme, “Who said that I’d be the one to move out of the bedroom?”

“Hey, you started this,” he replied while leaning against the doorframe, folding his long arms in front of his massive chest as he smiled brightly at her.  He was clearly entertained by their entire conversation.  “Besides, we both know that I’m too fucking tall to sleep on the couch.  I’d have to stay in the fetal position all night long just to keep an ass cheek on the cushion.”

“Is that so?” she retorted as she laid her knife on the counter and glared at him.  Man, that was a lame comeback if ever there was one.  She hated it when he got the upper hand this fast in one of their verbal sparring matches.

“Yup,” Sandor said, popping the ‘p’ for added emphasis.

“Fine, I’ll sleep on the couch.” Sansa responded dryly, returning her full attention to the salad, tossing the contents of the bowl vigorously while pretending to ignore him.  Sleeping on the couch could work, right?  Surely, she could do that for three months.  Their couch might be fairly old and a hand-me-up from Arya after she and Jaqen moved in together last spring, but Sansa Stark was not a quitter.  No way.  She was bound and determined to see this plan of action through.

“So, when you say ‘no sex,’ does that mean we can’t shower together either?” Sandor asked her as he scratched his beard.

Really?  He had to ask that?

“No, no more showers.”

“How about kissing?”

“Kissing is allowed.  Just no…you know…”

“No, tell me.  I don’t know.”

“You’re enjoying this _way_ too much,” Sansa huffed, shooting Sandor a knowing look as he continued to stand there in the kitchen doorway while grilling her mercilessly.  Oh, Sandor was a smart man.  Too smart, come to think of it.  Sandor had schooled his features, attempting to appear totally innocent and devoid of any secret motivation for the little litany of questions, but Sansa knew full well what his angle was.  He was trying to get her goat.

And getting her goat was something of an art form for Sandor.

“I’m just trying to establish what is and isn’t allowed, that’s all,” he countered, smirking the whole time.

“Fine.  Kissing is allowed, but just no sexy kissing.  Like tongue stuff.”

“Tongue stuff?”

“You know what I mean!  Quit being difficult!”

“Right.  No tongue stuff…got it.”  And with that comment, Sandor slowly ran his own tongue along his bottom lip, pulling said lip under the top row of his teeth while he overtly eyeballed Sansa from head to toe.

Sweet baby Jesus on a bus.  Now that was just plain unfair.  How could the man sound so incredibly sinful just saying the word “tongue?”

“What about touching?” Sandor inquired as his eyes locked with hers.

Sansa swallowed hard before replying without thinking her answer through, “Touching is allowed.”

“Interesting,” Sandor rasped as he pushed off the doorframe, slowly entering the small kitchen.  Padding in his bare feet, moving to stand directly behind her, he firmly grasped her by both hips, pulling her backward just this side of rough until she was flush against his body.  “I think I can work with that.”

Dear.  God.

When Sandor had arrived home from teaching his last kendo class of the day, Sansa didn’t even give him time to jump in the shower and to change into his street clothes before she had pounced on him as he had walked in the door.  Not in the way she normally would have, of course, seeing how she was plotting to go cold-turkey on the whole sex thing and all.  No, this time, Sansa intended to convince him that living like brother and sister for the next 90 days until they took their vows was a perfectly normal, healthy thing for a young, randy engaged couple to do.  She had thought about nothing else all afternoon at the office since her conversation with Margaery.  It seemed like a totally logical, rational idea.  Surely, Sandor would see her side of things and agree, right?

However, Sansa had forgotten one teeny-tiny yet terribly important detail when planning her strategy to convince Sandor that becoming celibate for a short period of time was a good thing for their relationship.

She had forgotten how damned turned on she got when Sandor came home from the dojo.

Sansa had not bothered to recall just how ruggedly handsome her highly athletic and extremely agile fiancé was when all ensconced in his jet black gi and hakama.  She had overlooked the fact that more often than not when she beat him home from the office, Sansa loved nothing more than crowding him up against the front door or shoving him onto the couch to have her naughty way with him.  She had forgotten how delicious he looked with his slightly sweaty black hair dusting his shoulders and his chest hair peeking out of the split in his gi.  And she definitely had forgotten to factor in how much his slightly spicy, animalistic scent he emitted after teaching the ancient form of swordsmanship could drive her absolutely batshit crazy with want.

Sansa could feel her breath hitch in her throat when Sandor lightly pressed his growing erection into her backside, grinding against her ever-so-slightly.  Fuck.  She really should have waited to have this conversation with Sandor until _after_ he had showered and had thrown on his worn-out sweats.

“You’re not playing fair,” Sansa barely squeaked as she involuntarily pushed her ass backward, rocking her hips just a wee bit to scrub against his groin.  When her fiancé lowered his head, leaning in dangerously close, his warm breath ghosting over her ear as he groaned, Sansa felt her whole body winding up tightly like a drum.

“Might ought to set the ground rules now, little bird,” Sandor whispered, his hands heading northward, slithering up her pale pink tank top, stopping just above her naval.

“Ground rules?” she choked out as he scratched tiny circles with his fingers along the exposed skin on her midriff.

“Mmm, ground rules.  What I can and can’t touch.”

“We…we should probably do that…”

Sandor allowed his hands to lazily slide a little higher, lightly grazing the band of her built-in tank top bra, “Over or under clothes?”

Sansa gasped as Sandor barely stroked the underside of her breasts.  “Over…I mean, under…” she panted as he finally stuffed his hands inside her bra, firmly cupping both breasts and squeezing her nipples.

“Above the waist or below?” Sandor questioned her as he released her breasts and headed southward.

“Above!  Above!” she cried out just as Sandor dipped his right hand into the waistband of her stretchy yoga pants.  Obeying her demand, he languidly removed his hand from where it had paused right above her thatch of copper curls.

Without warning, Sandor grasped Sansa by the waist, spinning her around like a ragdoll until she was face-to-face with him.  He pressed his body against hers, holding her against the counter with his hips, staring down into her lust-filled gaze like a hungry dog about to devour its prey as he caged her in with his arms, “Do you get to pleasure yourself?”

Holy hell.  Now that was a piece of information that Sansa had definitely _not_ considered earlier in the day when scheming on the whole waiting till marriage thing.

“Yes – I mean, no…maybe?” she fumbled, clearly unsure of how to answer.  Her brain and body were at war with one other, and unfortunately, her body came armed tonight with nuclear weapons while her brain only bothered to enter the battle with a single pellet gun.

“I see…” Sandor hummed, grinning from ear to ear, “Do I get to watch?”

Sansa’s sky-blue orbs widened in shock and awe, all at the same time, “No!”

“Too bad.  But I’ll let you watch,” he replied smugly.  Pushing off the kitchen counter with both hands, Sandor began to back up slowly out of the small kitchen, exiting through the doorway while starting to untie his hakama.

“I…thought we…we’re waiting till…honeymoon…” Sansa floundered as she tried to stand her ground.  Too late.  Deep down, she knew that she had been standing on a sea of quicksand since the minute that she had opened her mouth about the whole fucking topic.  Watching with hooded eyes as Sandor began to carefully peel that damn uniform off his body, Sansa’s mouth began to water.  And it wasn’t thanks to the aroma of dinner dancing around the kitchen, either. 

“How long till we eat?” he asked as he unwrapped his hakama and unhurriedly began to peel it off his hips.

“About…twenty minutes…” Sansa mumbled, licking her lips in anticipation.

“That’s plenty of time,” Sandor grinned, finally disappearing from sight, the sound of his voice now in the living room, “I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me.”

Left with only the sound of her ragged breaths filling the empty kitchen, Sansa leaned back against the counter once again, bracing herself with the palms of her hands.  Jesus H. Christ.  Her very sexy soon-to-be-husband was about to be sprawled out on their king-size bed, completely naked, taking the matter of waiting until their honeymoon into his own hands, so to speak.  Sandor would be writhing and thrusting his long, thick cock into his calloused palm, spewing curses and cum alike in just a matter of minutes.

And Sansa, who had suggested the whole “let’s wait” idea, would be standing out here all alone in the hot kitchen, pent up and put out that she had told her talented lover that she wasn’t going to, well, put out for ninety days.

Ninety days.

Ninety long, _long_ lonely days….

“Ah, give it up,” Sansa laughed at herself as she shook her head at her own stupidity.  Dashing out of the kitchen, sprinting toward the hallway leading to their bedroom as she yanked her tank top over her head, Sansa called out to Sandor, “Wait for me!  I’m coming!”

And come she did.  Twice.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know about y'all, but I think I'd like it if Sandor poked me with his sword. Just saying...


End file.
